Unsung Heroes
by DolbyDigital
Summary: She is tasked with researching his short life; she doesn't expect it to be anything more than a job - never has she been more wrong.
1. Prologue

The festivities didn't last long. There had only been just over two days of celebrating the defeat of You-Know-Who before the sheer amount of destruction finally began to sink in. No one had come through the war totally unscathed; if the injury hadn't been to themselves, then a loved one would have been seriously injured – or worse.

It is no longer thought of as a positive thing to be one of the survivors – not when you are awoken every night by the nightmares and the screaming. The visions of torture and death and destruction haunt every survivor, no matter what they were doing during the war.

Foreign countries send all forms of aid that they can manage, and whilst it is appreciated it does not help them to forget. These people were unaffected, they didn't arrive until after the dust had settled; they were just here to help rebuild the wizarding societies of Great Britain. Some don't thing that they should bother – believing that they are trying to preserve an old relic from the past which is better left forgotten – but most people help where they can, wanting to keep busy so that they have little chance to think about everything that they have lost.

The Ministry is the first thing to be re-built and re-designed. An entirely new system of government begins to be designed within the empty halls in the hopes that this will never happen again. People are doubtful that any of their careful planning would be able to stop a second attack – if a new dark wizard were to emerge it would be easy for them to overthrow the poor excuse or order; it would be like a child playing with a toy army, too easy.

Once work is fully underway on the Ministry, some of the workers move on to the school. This is where most of the damage is, and they know that it will be the hardest to re-construct. Most of the magic that went into making the school when it was originally built is so outdated now that no one is entirely sure what to use instead. A lot of the old spells are long forgotten, or at some point in the long ago past were deemed to be Dark Magic.

They do the best that they can for the time being, but they get a specialist work force consisting of the strongest and brightest witches and wizards from across the globe to work on creating new spells to strengthen the school and its surrounding areas. It is a project that will take them years to complete, but it is not something that they are willing to compromise on. They will not take risks on the children's safety.

A lot of parents won't be sending their children to Hogwarts in the upcoming years, but they hope to re-instil people's faith in the school; they hope that with time Hogwarts will once again be the safest place in the country.

Those that are unable to work on the re-construction projects are left alone to their grief. Both sides of the war suffered great losses, but it is the children who suffered the most. They have lost siblings, friends, parents. They have lost their school – the one place that they were led to believe that they would always be safe. They have all witnessed the destruction and devastation. They have lost their innocence.

Once the construction work is well underway, and the foreign countries believe them to be stable enough to withdraw their help, the real level of their loss begins to dawn on people. The graveyards are overrun with bodies waiting to be buried, many people are still left unaccounted for, and Azkaban has never been more crowded.

The time of grieving has arrived.


	2. 10 Years Later

She walks through the crowded halls of the Ministry, making her way to her small office. The paper airplanes whizz past her head, and she dives to the side quickly to avoid taking one to the eye; she thinks that the Ministry really ought to re-design their message system, but she's heard it's a lot more efficient than the owls were – or cleaner, at least.

Her arms are overflowing with rolls of parchment, and the sudden movement causes most of them to slide out of her grip and spread across the floor of the wide corridor. With an impatient sigh, she bends down and begins to pick them up knowing that she is definitely going to be late to the meeting she has scheduled.

People continue on their way, paying her no heed, and scatter her parchments further in their haste. With a scowl aimed at a stout witch who tears a sheet in half with the six inch stilettos she's wearing – and _why_ anyone would wear those to work is beyond her – she finally manages to gather up the last piece of paper. She'll fix them and re-organise everything when she gets to her office; she's already five minutes late as it is, and this meeting could prove to be the turning point in her career.

She's hoping for a promotion; she's been working here for nearly ten years, she helped with the re-construction efforts after the war whilst simultaneously re-taking her seventh year at school – she _deserves_ that promotion.

She practically runs the rest of the way to her small office, and stands panting slightly in the doorway for a few seconds to compose herself before she enters.

There is a tall, imposing man sitting behind her desk – sitting in _her_ chair, but she wouldn't dare say anything. He's wearing a muggle suit, which she finds slightly odd, and his dark eyes fix on her as soon as she enters. She flushes slightly under his penetrating stare, as she walks slowly to her desk and sets the loose rolls of parchment down in a wonky pile.

"Miss Granger," he begins, seemingly not bothered with introducing himself.

"It's Weasley, now," she can't help but correct, wincing slightly as his eyes narrow.

"Mrs Weasley," he accedes, "I gather that you were informed of this meeting." She grimaces faintly at his tone, hoping that he doesn't notice the brief expression flicker across her features.

"Yes, I was," she begins, hoping that her voice sounds stronger and more assured than she feels, "I apologise for my lateness..."

"We have a project which we would like for you to undertake," he interrupts, standing slowly from the chair and walking smoothly around the mahogany desk. "As I'm sure you're aware, the anniversary of the war against Voldemort is imminent. We would like for you to be one of the researchers involved with this." She frowns slightly, unsure what it is that he's talking about.

"Well, I..." She begins, only to be cut off for a second time.

"We are aware that you played an important role in the second war, but if you deem this project to be _below_ you..."

"No, no, sir. Of course not," she stammers, not giving him a chance to finish the sentence. It may not have been the promotion that she was looking for, but it could still be beneficial to her – at least, from what little she's heard about it, it _seems_ like it could be a good opportunity and she would like to hear more about it.

"So, that's settled, then." His calculating stare turning into a satisfied smirk, "I'll have the papers sent over and you can begin working on it straight away."

"What? But I..." She tries to object – he hasn't even told her what the job _is_ yet – but he's already out the door and half way down the corridor before she can even fully form her objection.

With a sigh she perches on the edge of her desk, and watches his retreating form, wondering just how much extra work she's gotten herself this time.

After several minutes have passed, she decides that it would probably be a good idea to sort out the hap-hazard pile of parchments that she had left on the corner of her desk what couldn't have been much more than five minutes ago. Even if it did look as though she had been taken off that project, it couldn't hurt to organise her notes – someone else might find them helpful, at the very least.

By the time an hour passes she has managed to organise her entire desk, fill in some paperwork that she hadn't managed to get around to the day before and gone on no less than three coffee runs, and still has yet to receive any information on her newest assignment.

She's beginning to get a little fidgety – probably shouldn't have had that last cup of coffee – by the time there is a tentative knock on her door. She opens it to find startled blue eyes blinking at her from behind messy golden curls; the man couldn't have been working here long, he didn't look that far out of Hogwarts, but the look of awe on his face as he stared at her was what gave it away – most people had gotten used to working with one of the Golden Trio long ago.

He managed to stutter out a few words – none of which she could understand, but she didn't really have the heart to ask him to repeat himself – and shoved a neat pile of parchments into her arms before scuttling off down the corridor, completely oblivious to her bemused expression.

She closed the door slowly, leaning against it for a while after she heard the soft _snick_ of it shutting fully. The parchment was a heavy weight in her hands, and she again wondered how much extra hours she would have to put in because of this project.

With a sigh, she pushed herself away from the door, walked slowly around her desk and eased herself into the worn chair behind it. She placed the pile of parchment in front of her, briefly considering another coffee run before quickly dismissing the idea, and skims over the first page.

_...October 31__st__ 1981..._

_...have access to all the Ministry's existing records..._

_...access all areas..._

_...other sources of information will be available..._

_...remaining family members' permission..._

She stared at the parchment in confusion; she had thought that the project would have involved the Battle of Hogwarts, but it seemed as though he had actually been referring to the Fist Wizarding War. It was a project that she would find more interesting – having not seen it first hand, so most of the information would be relatively new to her – but she wasn't sure what made this project so important; from what she had read so far it seemed as if she was writing about just one person, and not the war as a whole.

She flicked through the next few sheets of parchment, only seeing a lot of dates and deadlines but nothing which explained the project further. By the time she was five pages in she was getting a little irritated at the organisation – there had to be at least fifty sheets, at the very least they could have put the most useful information at the front.

_...died a hero..._

_...unknown by the masses..._

_...a member of Voldemort's inner circle..._

_...discovered important information..._

_...helped greatly with the war effort..._

_...Harry Potter himself..._

_...enabled the death of..._

She felt about ready to scream; there was no logic to this, she was seven pages in and they still hadn't given her a name – surely that should have been on the first page. She went back over all of the pages she's read, thinking that she must have missed it the first time around, this time reading every single word – still nothing.

With a groan, she grabbed her mug and stormed down the corridor; she already felt drained by this project and she hadn't even technically started it yet. She dreaded to think what she would be like six months from now. This was turning out to be a nightmare.

After two mugs of black coffee, she finally felt prepared to renew her search for a name. Setting her mug down on her desk and ignoring the dark ring that it would inevitably leave behind, she focussed her attention back onto the loose sheets in front of her.

_...Slytherin..._

_...1961..._

_...died valiantly..._

_...18 years of age..._

Finally – _finally _– she found the name, right at the bottom of the tenth page, printed in bold letters and underlined several times.

_REGULUS BLACK_

"Well," she couldn't help but say aloud, "at the very least, this is going to be interesting."


	3. Opening

Two figures stood outside the entrance to a small cave, their shadows cutting impressive figures across the deserted land. One was significantly taller than the other, and if there had been anyone there to witness them they would have said that it appeared to be a man and a child standing in the muted glow of the waxen moon.

Where they were standing on the jut of rock was not easily accessible – it was not, in fact, a place where anyone would be able to get to without some form of assistance. This did not seem to concern them in the slightest, however, and they did not stop to take in the scenic view that very few had seen before them and that even fewer would see after.

Instead, they both walked with a purpose towards the mouth of the cave – the taller moving gracefully with long, even strides, whilst the shorter of the pair struggled to keep up and moved with the gait of one unused to such excursions.

They paused once they had reached the back of the cave, staring at the solid stone wall as if it was going to open up to them and reveal the all of the secrets of the universe. After a few minutes of nothing happening, the taller man glanced down at his companion, a questioning look on his face.

"M-master must bleed," he stuttered in a deep and croaky voice that proved him to be much older than his silhouette gave him credit for.

The taller man nodded, removed a knife from his belt, and held his left hand out in front of him. He grasped the knifes blade in between shaking fingers and watched as a steady trickle of blood rose from the open wound and made small rivulets down his wrist and arm. He held his hand palm out towards the stone wall and smeared his blood across surface with a slight grimace of pain and disgust.

The wall began to open up to them, slowly at first, to reveal another cave behind the one that they were already in. This cave seemed impossible in size, too big to support itself within the side of the cliff without collapsing, and the lake filled with murky green water glowed too brightly to be entirely natural.

He pulled a long stick from within to confines of his robes and waved it over his hand, the wound knitting itself back together in a matter of seconds leaving no trace that it had ever existed, save for a small amount of blood on the cave floor.

Both figures walked slowly into the cave, keeping an eye on the opening in the rock surface as if they didn't quite believe that it wouldn't close and leave trapped so deeply inside the cliff face that they could no longer hear the deafening roar of the sea outside.

They both hesitantly made their way over to the shore of the indoor lake staring at the green water in both awe and fear, watching the deathly still surface for any signs of movement. They stopped next to a little boat – held together by mere willpower, it seemed – the taller man carefully stepped into it and, once seated, helped his companion to do the same.

The boat began to move through the body of the water without any input from either of them, disturbing the surface and leaving large ripples in its wake. His companion dipped a long fingered hand into the smooth surface of the water; a pale hand gripped onto the side of the boat, skin almost translucent in the green light, bony fingers digging into the wood as flesh and fingernails struggled to stay intact.

With a flick of his wand the hand disappeared back into the murky depths of the water, but the illusion of calm had been shattered. Leaning carefully over the side of the boat – ensuring that he kept as far away from the surface as possible – he was greeted with hundreds of milky white eyes staring unblinkingly at him from just below the surface of the water.

He glanced quickly at his companion – rocking slowly back and forth, muttering to himself under his breath words that didn't quite make up full sentences – before turning back to the water. The bodies floated around the boat – still but moving with them – going down as far as his eye could see and completely obscuring the bottom of the lake.

_Inferi._

After that, he made sure that neither of them got too close to the edge of the boat or disturbed the surface in any way. The sat in the boat – one calm and patient, almost calculating in his intensity, and the other still rocking, shaking and muttering to himself.

The boat reached the other side with a gentle thump that knocked the smaller figure forward into his companion, causing him to emit a small squeak of fear before resuming his shaking and muttering. The other stood slowly, stretching out the kinks in his back caused from being in such a confined space that restricted his movements.

They walked together to the centre of the island until they reached the large stone basin situated at its centre, one standing tall and the other cowering at his feet.

"Do you remember what I told you?" The man looked down at his companion, an oddly compassionate expression adorning his features. At the creatures hesitant nod, he continued, "Once the potion is gone, switch the lockets. Then leave. Understood?" Another nod was the only response he received.

He reached into the basin and used the goblet inside to scoop up a portion of the glowing green liquid. He got down onto his knees and offered the goblet to his companion, smiling encouragingly when he accepted it. The creature slowly lifted the goblet with a determination that almost detracted from the shaking of his hands, and brought it up level with his chin.

"No! Me." The man nearly shouted, eyes wide as he watched his companion almost take a sip of the glowing potion. "That's an order," he added upon noticing the mutinous expression on his face.

With only minimal complaining, the creature lifted the goblet to his companion's lips and gently poured the liquid down his throat, wincing slightly at the pained expression on his master's face. As they continued to drain the basin he prepared himself for the pain to increase with each mouthful of the foul liquid, but he had not anticipated the resurgence of some of his worst and most painful memories being played out behind his eyes.

_He was four years old; and he didn't understand why he wasn't allowed to hide from the thunder storm._

_He was eleven; and he had to look at the expression of pure hatred on his brothers face as he made his way over to the figures all clad in green, applauding him for making it into their esteemed house._

_Fourteen; and he watched from his place hidden in the shadows on the floor above as his brother and mother screamed at each other in the hallway, his brothers packed trunk discarded at his feet to enable him to more effectively use his hands to show their mother what exactly he thought of her._

_Sixteen; and the burning pain of The Mark being branded into his flesh made his vision blur, but he kept the scream that he felt building in his chest at bay knowing that he could never show any signs of weakness in front of these people lest they remember and exploit it later on for their own personal gain._

_Eighteen; and the man he had admired for years proved to be nothing more than a fraud. He was not going to change the world for the better; he simply aimed to become immortal and to destroy anyone that stood in his way. He was not the saviour that they had been looking for, merely the catalyst for the events that would ultimately lead to all of their demise._

With a scream of pain, he was brought back to the present; his companion was wringing his hands nervously, looking down at him every so often with panic clearly visible in his every action and expression. The empty goblet lay abandoned on the floor next to his face – and when had he lain down? – a few stray drops of the glowing green liquid pooled slightly in its concave surface.

"D-did you..." he stuttered, before his dry throat caused him to give up the poor attempt at speech.

"Kreacher did as master asked, sir," the house elf stated proudly, still with a hint of worry gracing his expression. He held out the original locket, its golden surface and glittering green stones shining brightly in the limited light that the cave seemed to emit.

"G-goo-dd. Now go," he instructed, knowing that the creature could not disobey a direct order no matter how much he wanted to. With a loud crack, the elf was gone, leaving behind only a small scuffed ring around the prone form of his master from the pattern of his constant footfalls.

Dragging himself away from the basin and across the small island back to the lake, he reached out his hand and dipped it into the murky water. The inferi immediately jumped into action, pulling themselves to the surface and clawing their way onto the island with him. Their cold, dead hands grabbed onto every part of him that they could reach, fingers digging into vulnerable flesh and rotting nails leaving ragged crescent shapes in his skin.

He put up as much of a struggle as he was able to in his weakened state, but it did nothing to hinder their grasping hands as they pulled him below the surface of the cold water. He felt his lungs seize up in protest to the lack of oxygen, and all of the air escaped them when a strong arm wound itself around his waist and _pulled_ dragging him further into the depths of the lake and blocking out any remaining light.

As the burning in his lungs intensified, there was only one thought left in his mind; he was not concerned with his imminent death – he had known that it was coming for a while – and nor was he concerned with how his few remaining family members and friend would react upon receiving the news.

He was only left with the hope that when the time came for the Dark Lord to face his match – whoever that may be – he would have at least helped in making him mortal once more.

The Saviour now had an opening.


	4. Coping Mechanisms

She leant back from her desk chair, rubbing her eyes tiredly – she'd only been working on this project for two weeks and already it had completely taken over her work and personal lives. She stretched out her arms and legs, letting out a groan of satisfaction as her muscles stretched and her joints popped. With a sigh, she spun the chair around in a lazy circle as she contemplated whether or not it was worth it to go downstairs.

She could hear the noises that her husband and two children made on the floor below from her home office; the complaints of tired children and the end credits of which ever film they had been watching. The smell of chocolate brownies and popcorn had wafted up the stairs and into her secluded little room making her mouth water and her stomach growl, reminding her that she hadn't eaten that night.

She glanced at her desk – a mess of parchments and books and quills – and let out another groan. Her work was interesting, but it kept her from her family. In the past two weeks she had barely seen them at all, and no matter how hard she tried it seemed that she only ever managed to finish up her work for the day around the time the kids were going to bed.

She slowly made her way out of her office, walking stiffly as if she had been cooped up in a car for several hours. She rubbed the small of her back and arched her spine, waiting at the top of the stairs for her family to finish their ascent. She smiled tiredly at her children's excited exclamations upon seeing her, their shouts only slightly marred by their complete exhaustion, their eyes drooping and limbs clumsy.

She picked up her youngest and all four of them made their way into the children's shared bedroom to finish up their preparations for bed. The way her little boy refused to even open his eyes was more of a hindrance than a help as she attempted to change him into his pyjamas, having already opted to bathe both children the following morning.

They had it down to a well-practiced art, not even needing words as they went about their nightly routine. By the time both children were tucked into their beds fast asleep the credits of the forgotten film downstairs were only just coming to a close. Both of their parents stood in the doorway, watching as the children slept.

"I'm sorry..."

"Don't even... It's fine," he responded with a sigh, before she could even fully form her apology. "I know this project is really important – the kids know, too – and it's not like you never see any of us. You can work from home, too. It's only for a couple months, right?"

"Well six months, but yes. It's just that... I still miss out on things. We were all supposed to go out today. They were really excited."

"They do understand." At her sceptical look, he continued. "Okay, yes. They were upset. But it's not like we can't do that another day. It'll be fine."

"Yeah. I just wish..."

"Me, too," he murmured, tiredly rubbing at his eyes.

"You go on to bed. I can clean up downstairs," she gently ushered him in the direction of their bedroom, still feeling guilty about the time she'd spent working when she had promised her family a day out. He went with only minimal complaint, clearly exhausted from whatever activities he and the children had gotten up to that day.

Slowly, she made her way down the stairs gripping onto the handrail so tightly her knuckles turned an almost bone-white colour. She felt as if she was about to collapse at any minute, just keeping her eyes open was a struggle and her vision had started to blur slightly around the edges.

Taking in the state of the living room, she begrudgingly accepted that it would be a while yet before she was able to go to bed. There was a large stack of empty plates on the coffee table – far too many to have been necessary for the one meal she had missed that day – and none of the sofa cushions were actually in place, there was a large puddle of what she hoped was water next to the cabinet, crayons were scattered across the entire floor and she wasn't sure what exactly had happened but she could see where a few had begun to melt, their bright colours staining the beige carpet.

Never had she been more thankful to be born a witch.

With a flick of her wand the living room began to clean itself, toys flying though the air and placing themselves in the correct containers, plates zooming into the kitchen and the mess on the floor clearing itself up.

The DVD began to play through for a second time as she made her way into the kitchen – still keeping an eye on the magic that was taking place in the living room – and opened the fridge. She pulled out some leftovers and, after removing the mixture of Clingfilm and tinfoil that her husband had practically mummified the meal in, she placed it onto a clean place and set it into the microwave. She had always preferred to make her meals the muggle way; she wasn't sure if it stemmed from her muggle upbringing or if magic somehow affected the taste of the food, but it annoyed her husband to no end.

She stood tapping her foot and listened to the microwave whir around, waiting for that loud beep to tell her when her meal was prepared. Her mind was still flooded with thoughts of her days work; she had only briefly heard about Regulus Black during the war, and she had to admit that he had never crossed her mind since then.

She had never needed to go into so much detail about another person's life before – willingly or otherwise – but she was only marginally surprised at how much she was enjoying it so far. Yes, the work was tedious and it took hours to uncover even the smallest amount of information, but it was rewarding, too.

She got to find out so much about someone who had remained completely unknown for so long, and she loved the challenge that it posed. She had never wanted a cushy job where everything was done for her and she could lean heavily on the fame that she had garnered during the war; she wanted to do something where she had to actually work for her pay check, something that at the end of the day would leave her with a sense of accomplishment.

This man – Regulus Black, a traitor of a Death Eater – he could give her that, and it was something that she would probably always be thankful for. She had found that it was much easier to cope if she was constantly busy; that she could forget the nightmares and memories, the lines of which had long ago blurred to a point where she could no longer tell for sure which demons were real or imagined.

She hated that her special form of therapy could sometimes interfere with her family life, but everyone had their own ways of coping with things.

Ginny had thrown herself into Quidditch, constantly playing the sport and perfecting her performance until it became more than an obsession – until it had become her very life.

Harry had spent his time at the Ministry, helping to rebuild the entire system from scratch and make it a place that he was proud to say he worked at.

Ron had become very involved with his family; he'd briefly worked for one of his brothers at his joke shop, before moving over to work at the Ministry with Harry. She was actually surprised that he'd been willing to wait as long as he had to have children; she had half expected him to ask her as soon as the ashes had settled after that last major fight.

She worked. She'd always used work to escape from things; she hadn't had many friends as a child, and that hadn't really changed much since she began Hogwarts or the subsequent years afterwards. She wasn't overly good with people – at least not living people; she much preferred her books and ancient texts to interacting with her peers, which was not something that was ever likely to change.

In fact, after the war it had only gotten worse. She had wanted to find out more about why things had happened the way they did; why certain decisions had been made; why people were so willing to follow Voldemort.

She wanted to work hard. She didn't want things to just be handed to her. She wanted to forget.


End file.
